Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal

by Gregg Taylor

  “Mitch!” called the masked man.

  As Mitch Reynard opened fire, the roar of the submachine gun almost drowned out the ringing peals of laughter from somewhere far above.

  Minutes later, as the sounds of furious battle continued, a small, lithe shape moved quietly through Vic Sclareli’s inner sanctum. The Red Panda watched from the shadows as it padded, almost silently, towards an oversized portrait of Vic’s uncle Tony, the founder of the Sclareli criminal empire who currently resided in a maximum security penitentiary for his trouble. Grey-gloved hands lifted the portrait down to reveal a wall safe behind. The hands set the painting on the floor, against the wall. For a moment, the garish colors served to highlight the silhouette of the cat burglar. It was a pleasant sort of a shape – female, athletic and yet softly curved. If the masked man took note of any of that, he gave no outward sign. Her gloved hands began to work the safe. The roar of gunfire in the outer chambers continued, muted though it was by the cork-lined walls of Sclareli’s office.

  The Red Panda stepped forward from the shadows, gliding silently towards the intruder. With both stealth and speed he moved towards the girl. Again, the smile played upon his face. She could have no idea he was here.

  “How am I supposed to crack this safe with you making that racket?” came a voice that was equal parts sass and laughter. “Or is that you being quiet?”

  The Red Panda smiled ruefully. His partner either had remarkable hearing or that was a very lucky guess. He decided to presume the former.

  “How are we doing?” he asked coldly.

  “Not bad. Most of what we need is in a pile on the desk,” said the Flying Squirrel with a glance back and a smile. “I thought you were keeping them busy.”

  “Don’t they sound busy?” came the reply as he pulled a folding satchel from the depths of his coat.

  “Who’s the shooter?” the masked young woman at the safe asked casually.

  “Mitch Reynard,” replied the Red Panda, as he quickly scanned the files his partner had selected before placing them into the satchel.

  “Mitch Reynard? You big softie.” The Flying Squirrel’s voice was amused, but not disappointed. “He’s the worst shot in gangland. He’d be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces.”

  “It’s still safer in here,” he said, as he completed his task.

  “And here I thought you just missed me,” she sighed as she turned the latch and opened the safe. “Are we interested in any cash or negotiables today?”

  “I think we’re covered. Grab the ledger and burn the rest.”

  “You rich boys don’t know the value of a dollar, do you?” There was a note of genuine disdain in her voice. He tried to think where he’d gone wrong. She turned her head in his direction, her steel grey cowl that blended perfectly into her catsuit turned to the side, waiting. He tried not to smile at the false ears on her cowl as they waggled at him slightly.

  “All right, grab the ledger, burn the bonds and we’ll drop the cash off at St. Michael’s.” He was fairly sure she was after the Robin Hood play.

  “That’s my Boss. He gets there in the end. Your ledger, sahib.” She handed him a thick black tome that, together with the other documents in the bag, spelled doom for Sclareli’s rackets.

  “Good work, Squirrel. This should be the end of the Sclareli crime family once and for all.”

  “Nothin’ personal, Boss, but we’ve said that before. Of course, if ‘dead shot’ Reynard has his way…” As if on cue, the roar of the machine gun stopped, leaving only an echo in its wake. They exchanged a look. Without a word, she grabbed the last stack of bills and thrust it into her own satchel as he produced a small, round device from the folds of his coat. He depressed a button and the ball began to whir.

  “Down!” ordered the Red Panda calmly, and he threw the incendiary into the safe. The remainder of Sclareli’s nest egg went up in flames.

  As the wail of police sirens descended on the place, two almost-invisible shapes leaped from the rooftop and were swallowed up into the night. If the arriving policemen heard the far-off peals of laughter as they stormed the broken fortress, they gave no outward sign.

  Two

  Police Chief O’Mally stormed along the crowded sidewalk like a man in a great hurry. Two aides followed behind him, trying to keep up with the large, thick-necked form. The crowd seemed to part before him, some because they knew of his position, but most because the scowl on O’Mally’s face would make anyone think twice before crossing his path.

  Almost anyone. Twenty yards from O’Mally’s destination, a tall, lanky man leaned against a red brick wall. The pleasant smirk on his face said it all; he knew the storm that was coming, and had no intention of heading for the hills. O’Mally’s shoulders seemed to barrel down just a little at the sight of the man, like a linebacker, as if he intended to ram straight through any attempt to impede his progress.

  If the lanky man noticed the change in his quarry’s posture, he didn’t seem terribly impressed. He pushed himself away from the wall and loped forward, matching the police chief’s pace with long, easy steps.

  “Chief O’Mally… Jack Peters, Toronto Chronicle,” the man said through a smile.

  “I know who you are, Mister Peters,” growled the Chief. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “You did see the banner article in the paper today?” Peters asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  “I saw it, Mister Peters. I saw it and several other, much better written articles very much like it. Like yours, the others were rife with factual errors that my office would have been pleased to address had any of you thought to consult us.”

  O’Mally’s aides were frantically trying to catch up to deflect Jack Peters’ questions. They needn’t have bothered. Their boss had things well in hand.

  “I did feel, however, that your article, as befits the paper for which you work, stood out as having the most lurid prose, and the most glaring grammatical errors.”

  O’Mally was good at this. He had closed most of the distance to the front drive of the Club Macaw. In a few more steps, he would be in an area reserved for members and guests. Jack Peters was neither, and O’Mally had given him not one word to print. Peters could see what was coming and quickened his stride. He reached the Club’s gates just ahead of O’Mally and blocked the Chief’s advance with a long, thin arm.

  “Come on, O’Mally. Every paper in town is screaming that the Red Panda broke up the Sclareli gang last night. They say the Crown Prosecutor found enough evidence on his desk this morning to lock the whole gang away for twenty years. And all I want to know is when you’ll admit that the Red Panda is working for the public good?”

  A few passersby had slowed to watch the men talking. O’Mally’s hands had clenched into fists when his path was blocked, but they relaxed now and he smiled, just a little, at the intrepid reporter. He leaned in just slightly, as if sharing a private joke.

  “Not much call for one-armed newspapermen around here, is there, Jack?”

  Jack Peters drew himself up for a moment, and immediately thought better of it. He could see that O’Mally was in no mood to play. A voice came from behind him.

  “Excuse me sir, would you kindly not block the entrance?” It was a large man in a formal doorman’s uniform. The polite manner was clearly an act. Peters held the Chief’s eye for just a moment.

  “Sure,” he said finally. “Have a nice lunch, Chief O’Mally.”

  O’Mally sighed. “My aides will be happy to give you a statement, Mister Peters.”

  Peters looked at the pair of officials. They did look pleased. He would learn nothing from these two departmental spokesmen, but it might give him something to print.

  “Thanks, Chief,” he said with a wave over his shoulder as he took out his notebook. O’Mally moved past the doorman into the courtyard of the Club Macaw, a gentleman’s club for many of the city’s elite. O’Mally smiled ruefully. They had made him a member when he became the Chi
ef of Police, mostly at the request of the Mayor, who seemed to use the Club as a second office and wanted his high officials at his beck and call. O’Mally was no politician; he was a career cop and a good one, if a little stubborn and a great deal stuck in his ways. He led his force as well as he could against the legions of crime in the city, but some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed. He made his way toward the front door.

  “Mornin’ Chief!” sang a voice to his right.

  O’Mally turned quickly at the sound of the voice, his whole posture changing and his ears already turning just a little red. There behind him was a girl in a form-fitting black chauffeur’s uniform, casually shining the hood of the most absurdly enormous limousine on the premises. She smiled at him as she worked, going momentarily cross-eyed as she blew aside a long curl of red hair that had freed itself from under her cap. It was impossible not to stop and greet Kit Baxter, and O’Mally made no effort to try.

  “Good morning, Miss Baxter. And a fine morning it is,” he beamed.

  The girl glanced skyward. “It’s a little grey,” she countered.

  “Is it?” O’Mally seemed genuinely surprised for a moment. “I mean, yes, it is, but a fine morning nonetheless.” The Chief recovered, but neither quickly nor well, and the girl tried not to smile at it.

  “I expect you’re a happy man today. I hear you nabbed the Sclareli gang.”

  “What’s that?” The Chief’s ears were quite dark red now. “Well, not exactly…”

  “Not exactly? I heard the whole gang had been rounded up.”

  “Well, yes, Miss Baxter. They have at that.”

  “Aw, you’re just being modest, aren’t you?” the girl said in a manner that left the Chief not at all sure she wasn’t playing with him.

  “Well, of course, my men were on the scene,” he said, puffing up just a little in spite of himself.

  “I knew it. I told my Ma the cops must’ve been working with the Red Panda.”

  “The…,” O’Mally sputtered. “Working with…”

  Kit turned her back to O’Mally as if she were putting the chamois away. She bit her lip hard to keep from laughing at the Chief’s discomfort.

  “We… that is… I…”

  “Hallo, O’Mally,” came a voice from the direction of the club. For the first time ever, O’Mally was relieved to see August Fenwick, Kit Baxter’s employer. One of the city’s wealthiest young men, Fenwick was a member of the desperately idle rich for whom Chief O’Mally had no patience at all. Given how few problems people like this had, and the disproportionate amount of his time and energy they demanded, it was a small wonder. Fenwick was, as always, immaculately groomed and clothed with a casual elegance which suggested to a working man like O’Mally that getting dressed was probably the greatest effort this specimen would expend all day. O’Mally looked at the young man’s face. If Fenwick looked a little tired, O’Mally was sure it was from his well-known activities as a ne’er-do-well. But on this occasion, he had rescued the Chief from a line of questioning O’Mally wanted nothing to do with.

  “Good morning to you, sir,” O’Mally said with a nod. The young man paused at the door of the limousine, never taking his hands from his pockets, as his lovely young chauffeur made her way around the car.

  “I say, O’Mally, that was awfully good work in the papers today.”

  “Thank you, Fenwick.” O’Mally seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Yes, getting that sort of organized criminal element out of the city gives me real peace of mind.” August Fenwick smiled almost serenely.

  “Well, I’m pleased to hear that, sir,” O’Mally said, trying very hard not to show how little that revelation mattered to him.

  Kit Baxter had reached the door and opened it for her employer. Unlike most servants O’Mally saw around the Club Macaw, she always spoke freely.

  “I was just telling Chief O’Mally how glad I was to see him working with the Red Panda,” she said, with another winning smile at the Chief.

  “The thing about that is–,” began O’Mally, before being cut off.

  “The Red Panda? Oh, Kit, don’t be ridiculous,” Fenwick scoffed. “To think the police force would ally itself with a masked vigilante like that.”

  “Thank you, sir.” O’Mally breathed his relief. It was short-lived.

  “Why, I’ve told you before, there’s no such thing as the Red Panda.”

  O’Mally was sputtering again. “No… no such thing…?”

  “Of course,” Fenwick said, climbing into the car. “Perfectly absurd. I recognize, O’Mally, that the police force cannot always fully protect the people of Toronto within the bounds of the law. I’m quite sure this ‘Red Panda’ is an invention of your own department to shield some cases where your methods are… unconventional. People have simply latched on to it. Sells papers,” said the man, tapping the copy of the Chronicle under his arm.

  Chief O’Mally sputtered a little more.

  “Well done,” Fenwick called again as his chauffeur shut the door. She made her way to the driver’s door and lowered herself in with a wink to the Chief that sent his ears back into a deep crimson shade.

  “Chief O’Mally?” It was the doorman at his arm. “The Mayor is waiting.”

  O’Mally sighed. It just got better and better.

  As the limousine pulled away, Kit Baxter looked back in the mirror. The casual laziness of the figure that had been lolling in the back seat was gone. In its place was an energy like a caged tiger, and eyes that burned with an intensity Chief O’Mally would have never recognized.

  “You’re terrible,” she said, her eyes lingering in the mirror a little longer than they should.

  “Me?” said August Fenwick, the unmistakable smirk of the Red Panda spreading across his face. “What about you? One day you’ll make that man’s ears explode.”

  “Maybe. If I don’t get a better offer,” she said with a teasing tone.

  The Red Panda chewed the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

  “Kit Baxter, behave yourself,” he scolded.

  “Yes, Boss,” she said, not meaning it. “Where to?”

  “To the lair,” came the voice from the rear seat. “We’ve got work to do.

  Three

  Down the length of the alley, hurried footsteps echoed. The orange light that glowed through a spider’s web of cracks in a basement window brought a shadow into view. Long, bent and twisted against the dark brick walls, the shadow seemed to shrink as the sound of footfalls grew louder. Smaller now, less grotesque, the shadow resolved itself into human form, shrank still and almost seemed to disappear as the figure that had cast it appeared. It was a square-built man, blockish and breathing heavily. He cast a hasty glance back over his shoulder. Had he lost them?

  Dan Tyler was on his way home, his workday finally completed. It was payday, and Tyler had been working a lot of overtime. It wasn’t much money, but when it was everything a man had in the world, it was enough to make him paranoid. Enough to make him feel like a target. To walk like a victim. Maybe that’s what had attracted them. Maybe they just knew the plant employees had been paid, and pegged Dan for an easy target. Many of the others had left in packs, headed for the taverns up the street. Not Dan Tyler. He had four children at home, and with the baby not well, they needed every dime he could earn.

  He was still breathing hard now, trying to be quiet to listen for any sound that might betray his pursuers. He could hear his own heart pounding, echoing in his ears. Maybe he had lost them. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. He’d felt their presence almost at once upon leaving the factory gates. There were two of them, one on each side of the street. They had turned when he turned. Sped up when he sped up. Finally, he had bolted left and sprinted for this alley. Made his way down the length of the narrow canyon between buildings as quickly and quietly as he could, hoping against hope that he’d been wrong… that it had all been in his head.

  Tyler held his breath another moment. Two
. Nothing.

  He sighed a little, and noticed for the first time the beads of sweat that had collected on his brow. His hand moved for his handkerchief, when all at once there came a small, metallic echo and a sputtering hiss of breath. As if silent feet had found a can or other debris, and a curse had been restrained. Tyler’s heart began to pound. The footsteps were moving faster now, knowing that stealth was a lost cause.

  Dan Tyler turned and ran as fast as his aching legs would carry him. He tried not to think of what would happen to his family if the men behind him took his money. He tried not to think of what they might do to him, of how long it might be before he could work again. There was only one thought in his mind: Run.

  He ran deeper into the alley, deeper into the night. The blackness before him was almost total now, but still his legs churned, propelling him further, faster… desperately hoping to emerge back into the street where someone, anyone, might find him and intercede.

  Almost before he knew what was happening, Tyler was on his back, his face and hands stinging with pain. The pavement was wet and cold on his back. Somewhere high above, someone turned on a light, perhaps in fright at the sound he had made. The light bled down to where he lay, and through the resulting grey, Dan Tyler could just make out the high wire fence he had run into. His heart sank. How could he hope to climb over this in time?

  A noise behind him made it clear this was a moot point at best.

  Tyler spun and clambered to his knees as best he could. Two figures emerged from the darkness, swaggering forward with the casual ease that only comes with long practice. One was tall, but wiry, with a tweed cap pulled low over his brow. The other was thick-necked and powerfully built, a tattered pork-pie hat perched on top of his head. They closed the distance far too quickly for Tyler to react. Tweed Cap was the first to speak.

  “All right, Pops. Give.”